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Alyra’s gaze flickered over her body, her brows furrowing in worry. “Prince Endreth?—”
“No! It’s not . . . it’s not like that,” Anthea hastily corrected her, her hands coming up in a placating gesture. “It’s normal for human females. We bleed once a month. It’s natural. I just . . . I need something to catch the blood.” She looked at Alyra imploringly, hoping that the elven woman would understand.
A moment of silence followed her words, and then the elf nodded. Her face softened, the creases of worry smoothing out. “I’ll ask Miriel,” she finally said. “She will know what to do.” She rose from her seat and guided Anthea out of her room, closing the door behind them, securing it with an ornate key that she then tucked away into a hidden pocket in her gray dress?—
“But why didn’t Prince Endreth send you to a healer?” Alyra’s question broke the comfortable silence as they walked down the hallway. “You were with him, weren’t you? You came back earlier than usual.”
“Prince Endreth thought it wasn’t necessary to disturb the healers,” Anthea lied, keeping her voice steady. “He said . . . it’s not worth it.”
“But, if you’re in pain,” Alyra said, her voice softer now as they paused outside of Anthea’s door. “The healers could help with that?—”
Anthea shook her head, her fingers curling around the doorknob to her room. “I don’t want to anger him, not again,” she murmured, adding a note of fear to her voice. She carefully avoided Alyra’s gaze, focusing instead on the worn, wooden door. “He said it wasn’t necessary. I don’t want to make him think I’m defying his orders.” She could almost sense Alyra’s shock and her struggle to reconcile this image of the prince she served with the one she had just painted. But Alyra was her only contact beside the Crimson princes here, and Anthea needed her to be on her side.
“I see.” The elf sounded uncertain, her blue eyes clouded with concern. “I’ll find Miriel. And Anthea?” She hesitated before placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You should rest.” With that, she left, her long white hair trailing behind her like a ghostly comet in the dark hallway. Anthea watched her retreating form before turning the doorknob, letting herself into the solitude of her room.
She was curled up in her bed, holding her stomach as she waited for the discomfort to pass. Not a moment later, Miriel entered, her steps heavy and deliberate. She carried a bundle of cloth strips and a basin filled with warm water.
“You should have said something earlier,” she said, setting the basin and the cloth strips on the table. Her sharp eyes flickered to Anthea’s grimacing face, a faint hint of concern seeping through her stern façade.
“I-I forgot,” Anthea managed to say through gritted teeth.
Miriel’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “Forgot? How could one forget such a thing?” Her gaze, sharp and critical, swept over her, making her feel incredibly small. But she didn’t comment further, turning her attention back to the cloth strips. She took one, demonstrating how to fold it for maximum absorbency. Once she was satisfied with the demonstration, she began instructing her. “You can use this basin,” she said, gesturing to the small container, “for washing the cloth. The kitchen always has warm water early in the morning and late in the evening. But you’ll have to fetch it yourself.”
Anthea nodded. She felt somewhat foolish under the stern elf’s gaze, but she was also profoundly grateful. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about bleeding all over herself or the bed.
After a few more words of advice and another chiding glance, Miriel finally left her to her privacy. As the door closed behind the head servant, Anthea let out a long sigh of relief.
Whenever she’d had terrible cramps at home, Treia had made her tea, and they would watch the Mummy together. Ari had sometimes joined. It had always turned into a competition: who of them could finish the dialogue in the movie first, before the actors. It had made her forget the pain?—
She pressed her eyes together, willing herself not to cry.
During the next three days, the world felt distant and muted, like she was underwater. The sharp pain of cramps tore through her at intervals, leaving her gasping and clutching at her abdomen. Miriel had informed her, with a significant amount of disapproval seeping through her words, that Endreth had ordered Anthea not attend to her duties for these days. Though she could tell the head servant’s resentment stemmed from a misunderstanding of what these duties truly were, she couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of shame at the disdain in Miriel’s eyes.
Every so often, Anthea would leave her room for brief periods. She would refresh herself, fetch warm water, and sneak into the kitchen to grab something to eat, always under the scrutinizing eyes of the elven servants.
Alyra was a constant presence, checking up on her, providing her with hot tea, and distracting her with stories of the Crimson castle and its occupants. Her visits were like rays of light penetrating the gloomy confinement of her room, and Anthea found herself looking forward to these moments of distraction. It was during one of those visits that she asked Anthea?—
“I’ve heard that sometimes Prince Aegonar joins you and Prince Endreth in your evening activities. Is that true?”
Gathering her thoughts, Anthea pulled her shawl tighter around her, the rough fabric grazing her fingers. She adjusted her posture, trying to buy a moment. “Well,” she began hesitantly, “He, um, likes to watch.”
Alyra’s brows furrowed, and for the briefest moment, the corners of her lips seemed to twitch upward. It was gone in an instant, but Anthea was certain she had seen it—a flicker of amusement or perhaps something darker—before her expression shifted back to one of sympathy.
“Really?” Alyra finally said, tilting her head. “That’s . . . unusual, even by elven standards.”
Anthea’s hands fidgeted in her lap. “Maybe they’re just close. I don’t really ask. It’s not my place?—”
“That must be . . . difficult for you.”
“More than you can imagine,” Anthea replied, but her thoughts were elsewhere. That momentary lapse in Alyra’s expression—it had been so fleeting, so subtle, that she questioned if she had imagined it. But it lingered in her mind, casting a shadow of doubt over all of Alyra’s previous reactions. Could Alyra see through her lies? Or worse, was the elf playing a game of her own?
The conversation soon steered back to safer topics. As they talked about mundane things, laughed about small oddities, she couldn’t shake off the unsettling feeling she might not be the only one in the room wearing a mask.
On the fourth day, Anthea woke up to a less hostile world. The pain had finally subsided to a dull throb, and she could breathe again. She relished the feeling of being herself again, even going as far as eating a meal in the servant’s hall, a smile gracing her lips. However, the brief respite was quickly shattered when Miriel found her, her stern features set in a firm line.
“Prince Endreth requests your presence in the study.”
A whirlwind of emotions clouded her thoughts as she walked the corridors that led to Endreth’s study. It was mortifying to know that Endreth, of all people, was aware of her menstrual cycle.
